


This Was A Terrible Idea

by CeleritasSagittae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Humor, Modern Era, Modern Thedas, crack-ish au, really ridiculous AUs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae/pseuds/CeleritasSagittae
Summary: In the Knight Shop, there is a set of full plate that is for "display purposes only."  Added to the sign stating this are the words, "This meansyou, Alistair."This is why.





	This Was A Terrible Idea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrulyCertain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/gifts).



This was a _perfect_ idea.

All Souls’ Day was right around the corner, after all, and while the “run through the streets dressed as cheap desire demons pretending to be any number of ludicrous things (Alistair still wished he could forget the “sexy hurlock” one)” tradition was a gross commercialization of something imported from Antiva, there weren’t exactly any other holidays built on terrifying your coworkers.

Unless one counted the Feastday pranks, he supposed.

But All Souls’ Day was right around the corner _now_ , and Satinalia was… not.

And he’d wanted to try that armour on anyway.

Alistair still had his gambeson from his SCA days at college, so it wasn’t as if he _couldn’t_.  And he hadn’t pulled out his chain shirt, the one that Cullen had said he could never finish before he graduated, in… what was it, now, _years_?

(He wondered if Alexia would like to see it.)

Anyhow, it was a _perfect_ idea.

It was not quite All Souls’ Day when Alistair put his plan into action. He’d have the best chance of pulling it off when he and Erren opened early; most mornings she disappeared into the back to drown herself in coffee and entirely-too-loud metal until she was actually awake.

This was, thank the Maker, most mornings.   _Better_ than most mornings, in fact, as he kept a gleeful running verbal tally of required donations to their nonexistent swear jar on the drive in.  By the time they’d gotten the shop unlocked, Erren was about ready to flay him, slowly.  “Enjoy your caffeinated defibrillation!” he called cheerily as the door to the back slammed shut.

Thirty seconds later, and Motorhead was blaring out of the speakers. Yes, this was _definitely_ even better than most mornings.

Opening his “this _is_ my real job, Eamon” portmanteau, he pulled out the gambeson, buttoned it on, and then shucked his arms into the chain shirt.  It took some wriggling, but it slid on smoothly, even if it was a little higher around the waist than he remembered.  (Alistair frowned and poked at his gut.)

And from there…

Well, he told himself, he _had_ done this before without help… it had just been a while.

Alistair was bending over to pick up the greaves when he heard the door open—

—and mentally added a silver to the nonexistent swear jar.

“So,” came a silky voice from the doorway, “what, precisely, _does_ this shop sell?”

The greaves clattered to the floor.  Another silver.

Alistair looked up to see a tattooed elf wearing sunglasses leaning his elbow on the counter, half over it.  “Ah… We—we don’t sell.  We offer services,” he stammered.

“Services, you say,” the elf said, grinning broadly, and Alistair felt himself going red.  “And here I thought they were all massage parlours.”

“N-nothing like that!  I mean, some escorting situations, but that’s more if you need a bit of muscle, or otherwise furniture put together, or…  look, the list’s right _here_ ,” he said, practically shoving one of Josephine’s artful brochures in his face and returning to the armour in hopes that their potential customer would take the hint and get out.

Not one of his best moments, he’d admit.  Josephine would give him one of those softly disappointed looks that turned his insides to eels.

He’d managed to get the greaves on when the elf spoke again.  “Does the armour cost extra?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Say… I needed a big strong knight on my arm to defend me from my millions of admirers.  If I wanted him to appear in armour, would it cost extra?”

“What?  Er, no—this is just for display purposes.”

The customer took off his sunglasses and eyed Alistair up and down. “Well, they picked an excellent display model!”

“That’s—I’m not— _interested_ , thank you.”  He did _not_ want to know how red he was at this point.

“Ah—well, your loss,” he said, and spent a few moments ostensibly perusing the brochure while Alistair was left wondering how much time was left before Erren came out.

“…May I help you?” he finally said, when the awkwardness grew too unbearable.

“Humour me,” said the elf.  “If the armour is meant to be a display model only… why _are_ you trying to put it on?”

“Ah—well, it’s almost All Souls’ Day, and I thought… never mind.”

“Do you require any assistance?”  The customer began to climb over the counter.

“W- _what_?” Alistair nearly yelped.

He tutted.  “I may not be a knight, but I like to think of myself as _somewhat_ of a gentleman.”  He grinned. “Consider me the worldly squire that gets all of the wenches while his lord is off tilting at windmills.”

Alistair hazarded a look at the back room.  “ _Fine_ ,” he muttered.  “But we’d better be quick about it.”

Five minutes later, Alistair was standing, very carefully, in the armor’s regular spot while the customer, whose name he’d learned was Zevran, went back to his leisurely perusal.

The back door banged open.  “Alistair, could you maybe _not_ be as much of a—  Oh, he’s run off, hasn’t he?  Hullo, sorry to have kept you waiting, may I help you?”

“No need to apologize, ser knight.  One sight of your visage and all thoughts of delay fled my mind.”

Alistair could _hear_ Erren’s look of skepticism.

“Anyhow, I was wondering…”

And, as Zevran somehow managed to engage Erren in a bit of conversation—Maker, was she flirting _back_?—he held as still as possible and tried to figure out the best way to pull this off.

He slowly turned around to the counter, pointed a hand at Erren, and intoned, in his best sepulchral voice, “ _Maaaark me_.”

The helmet limited his vision too much to see her jump, but he caught the rest of it.  “Andraste’s titface!  What the actual _fuck_?”

“And that’ll be one sovereign, thank you!”

Alistair wondered whether rude gestures also counted as requiring contributions.

* * *

Once Zevran left the shop, Erren rounded on him.  “What part of ‘That means you, Alistair’ did you not understand?”

“What?” said Alistair.  “Isn’t that the equivalent of a giant red button saying ‘don’t push’?  Besides, I got you, didn’t I?”

Erren just smirked.  “I’m not sure how much you’ve thought this through.  Luckily for you, there’s no way I’m letting myself be the only one that falls for this.”

And so Alistair and Erren began the work of perfecting the perfect jump-scare. Subtle movement was all it needed, but of course they couldn’t go about scaring the actual customers…

It was only once Erren started going over a contract with a lady with two little daughters (who both swore they’d grow up to be real knights) in slow, painstaking detail, that Alistair realized that this had been a terrible idea.

After all, it wouldn’t do to terrify the two sweet little knights-in-training (“Always make sure to stand up for what’s right,” Erren was telling them), but his big stupid nose had started to itch terribly…

When the door to the shop finally closed behind them, he tore his helmet off and mashed his gauntlet to his nose.

This was a _terrible_ idea.

“Told you,” Erren smirked.

* * *

It was only around the third hour that things began to get awkward. Alistair could get away with slouching when the shop was empty, or after a decent scare (Gal, check, Dorian, check, and even though he was a paying customer somehow Alistair doubted that a sleuth of bears would scare him away from the Shop entirely), but he’d had three cups of tea before work and nature’s call could only be denied for so long.  What was worse, he was fairly certain this armour was designed for jousts, not actual fighting, so his actual flexibility was about the equivalent to a racecar driver’s.

If he could just hold out a little longer…

Cullen’s shift was going to start in half an hour, and Gal had said his sister might be dropping in…

_Think of the Anderfels_ , he thought. _The Western Approach.  Dry, sandy expanses, not a drop of water—no, don’t think about water…_

He was dancing on his toes, halfway to whimpering (much to Erren and Gal’s obvious mirth) when Gal’s phone buzzed.  “They’re on their way,” he said, and Alistair forced himself to hold still.

A singularly painful eternity later, the door opened.

Yvaine Trevelyan stepped inside as Cullen held the door for her.  The moment her eyes lighted on Alistair, her eyes brightened and she flashed him a quick wink.  He wondered if Gal had told her, or she was just that sharp.

“Isn’t Alistair supposed to be here?” Cullen was saying.

“Actually,” Yvaine said smoothly, “could you hold still a moment?  You’ve got something on your…”

Somehow she’d maneuvered him so his back was to Alistair.  It was the best setup yet, but all he could manage at this point was a single, weak, “Help… me…”

Cullen _jolted_ , as if he’d been struck by lightning, while the rest of the shop (Alistair excluded) burst into laughter.

“No,” Alistair said, “actually, for real, help me, if I don’t use the loo in the next two minutes I’m going to explode…”

It was really the worst possible time to be on the receiving end of Cullen’s brown trousers look.  “You are going to owe me _so much_ , Theirin.”

He’d have felt stung by the deliberate jab if he weren’t trying to keep control of himself as he waddled to the back room.

“Sorry,” said Cullen, when the door had shut.  “Sorry.  It’s just—you _do_ know how much that armour costs, don’t you?”

“Hadn’t really crossed my mind,” Alistair squeaked.

“You’re lucky I still remember how to do this.”

“Yep.”

“Arms out?”

Alistair nodded and just concentrated on _holding_ until he was free of the armour.

“Hmm…”

“That’s a bad ‘hmm,’ isn’t it?”

“How on Andraste’s pyre did you manage to get _stuck_?”

**Author's Note:**

> Gal, Erren, and Yvaine are [TrulyCertain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain)'s. Alexia is [aphreal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aphreal)'s. Firiel is glad she’s nowhere near this mess.


End file.
